The elevator in my building takes twenty seconds, fifth to lobby.
*
The doors lumber open and I face the closed face of the guy from upstairs. Today he’s with a girl. He holds a large dish. The lid’s off – a grilled chicken, knees akimbo. I nip in and dodge the door. The lift whirrs. Dinner glistens in a pond of juices.
The girl is a quirky concoction of pale greys and pinks – bubblegum, salmon, macaroon, milkshake. It’s a frolic, an artwork. She’s sherbet. I’m charmed.
So I say, "Hello."
"Hi" – birdsong.
"Hi" – grudging grunt.
His eyes twitch back to the door. We’ve never spoken but I've sensed – as one does – gays don’t fit his boxy elevator.
Her shoes are confections of sugar, a shimmer of crystalline hairs. She cradles a polystyrene container sheathed in cling-wrap. It twinkles against raspberry fizz.
"And that must be dessert."
She reads me. Slowly, she widens her eyes and, with a flourish, flips it over to reveal a huge bun-like mound embellished with pink frosting and sprinkles.
"Ah, the perfect accessory."
"I’ve taken to pink."
"Non-alcoholic?"
"Well, you can get tipsy on it. But I never pink and drive."
We're grinning at each other.
The lift bumps down. Doors amble open.
"Bye," I say.
"Bye." / "Bye."
One "bye" is rosy cheeked; the other, a bewildered scowl.
*
Twenty seconds well spent.
Michael Pettit is an artist from Cape Town, a painter with an academic background in Fine Arts. He also writes. His short stories and poems have appeared in The Barcelona Review, Bookends Review, Thin Skin, and in various anthologies: Meniscus, WestWord Prize (3rd Prize), Parracombe Prize, Bournemouth Writing Prize, MTP Competition (Highly Commended), Hammond House Prize (Editor’s International Choice award, and 1st Prize: song lyrics). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
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